


Going to the Chapel

by mother_finch



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: F/F, Gen, mother-finch fiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-22
Updated: 2016-03-22
Packaged: 2018-05-28 11:28:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6327172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mother_finch/pseuds/mother_finch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>PROMPT: Prompt- The team's latest numbers are the maid of honor and best man at a wedding. Root and Shaw sneak in to keep an eye on them. Not paying attention to the ceremony, Root keeps thinking what hers and Shaw's wedding would look like and what her vows to Shaw would be. Shaw notices her lack of attention and knows exactly what she's thinking. After they neutralize the threat and get back home, Shaw asks if a wedding is something she wants. Root says, "Yes." So, Shaw proposes right on the spot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Going to the Chapel

"If you're in there much longer, we're going to be _late_ ," Sameen Shaw yells through the bathroom door, tapping her high heeled foot with hands on her hips. Casting her gaze to a full length mirror that squats in the back corner of the bedroom, Shaw takes in her attire:

A short, ocean-grey dress sporting a single over-the-shoulder strap, along with matching grey wedges that boost her into the mid five foot range. Smoothing the ruffled front down slightly, Shaw turns her head from side to side, the large stylized sweep of dark hair on her head seeming slightly over the top. Suddenly, the doorknob turns, and Shaw takes a step back, allowing the door to swing open.

Root starts out from the bathroom, strappy heels looping endless circles up her ankles, just to be met with a long stretch of exposed skin to the knee. From there, a navy blue dress hugs Root's form, where just above the hips, her sides show. As Root turns her back to Shaw, Shaw can't help but to notice that the opening in the dress continues to the back, forming a teardrop from her lower back to her shoulder blades and neck.

"Zip me up?" Root asks, tossing her affectionate gaze over one shoulder. It takes Shaw a moment to snap to. Blinking, she pulls her mind from studying Root's dazzling attire, and her eyes scan for a zipper. Root, pulling her overflowing locks of wavy hair over her shoulder, reveals a thick strap of blue fabric dangling at the back of her neck, metallic zipper gleaming. Quickly, and perhaps a little too roughly, Shaw yanks it up. She's flustered, but can't place why, which only adds to the feeling.

* * *

 

"Pretty sure you could have managed that on your own," Shaw grumbles, brushing past Root and to the dresser. She opens the top drawer; a full arsenal greeting her with a cold, metallic welcome. Running her fingertips over each gun, she stops as arms wrap warmly around her waist. Looking up into the mirror, she's just in time to watch Root- eyes alight with affectionate pleasure- rest her chin on Shaw's shoulder.

"What's got _you_ wound so tight?" Root asks her dotingly. With Root so close, the smell of her breath and her perfume creates a wall around Shaw, closing her in and intoxicating her entirely. It seems impossible, watching Root's face in the mirror and breathing her in- to stay irritated. _Almost_.

"Not a big fan of weddings," Shaw replies with a hissing sigh. Root shifts at Shaw's side, turning her face up to peer at Shaw. Slowly, a sinister smirk curls onto her features.

"What?" Root coos sarcastically. "Would Sameen Shaw rather be causing mayhem on the streets of Manhattan?" Shaw's mouth presses into a flat line, unamused.

"Yes, _actually_ ," she replies bluntly, grabbing a hand gun and ammo out of her drawer before shutting it with a violent bang. Slipping out of Root's grasp and heading towards her handbag, Shaw continues. "Reese gets to play detective everyday. But what do _we_ have to do? Go to a wedding where everyone is going to be a crying emotional _train wreck_."

"At least _pretend_ to be civil," Root responds with a hint of laughter. "If you don't get kicked out before the reception, I heard the catering service is to _die_ for."

At this, Shaw pauses. She takes a moment, bent over her bag on the edge of the bed, to weigh her options. In the end, she slings her bag over one shoulder, grabbing her black peacoat as she heads towards the apartment's exit.

"It better be _damn_ good," Shaw growls, not glancing back. Still, even without looking, she can see the humored smile on Root's face, and her ears begin to burn.

____\ If Your Number's Up /____

"What do you _mean_ he can't access the guest list?" Shaw spits upon hearing the news. Root tilts her head, eyes trained on Shaw. She waits until Shaw looks at her before raising a brow.

"Harold says the list is only on paper. There's no way for him to add our names to it."

" _Now_ , what, then?" Shaw asks, agitation evident in her tone. Honestly, Root doesn't know. Peering about, Root searches for a back door or emergency exit to slip through. The chapel in itself is extravagant. Grey stone walls the color of a cloudy day reach towards the sky, all sides coming together to form a single column at the building's center. Four large, gothic era panes shaped like flowers line each side of the column, acting as prison bars for a glimmering bell hidden within. The windows of the chapel- only two small ones visible at the front- are similarly fashioned. The only difference is, instead of open gaps in the pedals, the windows are filled with stained glass. The main doors are larger than life- their wooden arc reaching fifteen feet high. Yet, from this angle, it seems to be the only set of doors the chapel has.

 _How noticeable would it be if we circled around the back?_ Root asks herself. Before she has time to relay the proposal to Shaw, a white van pulls past them, a cursive black logo reading " **Phancy's Photography** " swallowing up the sides. The van stops two parking spots down from them. Before it's even put in park, the back doors are flung open.

"Chop, chop!" A man's voice yells impatiently from within. "Time is _money_! Get your asses to _work_!" On cue, a man in grey hops down from the bed. He grabs tripods and camera equipment from a second man, who jumps out a minute later. Both of them- hands full- stager towards the chapel as the van is slammed into reverse, then drive, and is gone. Root's eyes glow with an idea.

"Sweetie?" Root says silently, leaning into Shaw, eyes trained on the cameramen. "Those two look like they could use a hand, don't you think?" From the corner of her eye, Root can see the edges of Shaw's mouth pulling into a wicked grin. Shaw's eyes hone in like a predator catching sight of prey, and it sends a twitterpated flutter through Root's chest. Adding a little speed to their step, they catch up to the men.

"Need some help?" Shaw offers as they close the small space between themselves and the photographers. Caught off guard, one of the men stumbles, nearly wiping out on the asphalt. Awkwardly, he composes himself, and the two turn to face Root and Shaw, the last fleeting traces of surprise in their eyes. In unison, the men look Root and Shaw over. Deeming them guests, they shake their heads.

"No, ma'am," the first- a man of about thirty-five with short, dark hair- replies. Shaw's eyes flicker with annoyance at the addressing.

"We've got it all covered, ma'am," the second- a scraggly blonde boy barely pushing twenty-three- assures her. Shaw's hands slowly curl into fists.

"At the _least_ , we could get the _door_ for you?" Root suggests, taking a step forward at seeing the simmering fire in Shaw's eyes. The two men share a look, then shrug.

"That would be greatly appreciated," the man tells her graciously. They turn, starting for the chapel once more. "We were told there's a door in the back somewhere." The two women hang back for a moment, waiting for the photographers to be out of earshot before picking up their casual gate once more.

"Not bad, huh?" Root asks playfully, and Shaw purses her lips in response.

"It would have been a lot easier if _Finch_ could have figured something out," she replies, stubborn. Root can't help but to roll her eyes.

"Well, for _now_ ," Root tells her humorously. "Crisis is averted- _ma'am_." Shaw turns on her instantly, murder in her eyes; Root can't help her beaming smile.

" _Don't_ call me that," Shaw snarls, voice making it clear this is her first and last warning. Shaking her head with vexation, Shaw quickens her stride to catch back up with the photographers, leaving Root behind. Root, watching Shaw go with a certain gleam in her eye, bites her bottom lip, crossing her arms before flipping her hair over one shoulder and picking up her pace.

Silently, almost to herself, Root replies, "Yes, ma'am."

______\ We'll Find You /______

After some sweet talking, wide-eyed stares, and charming smiles, Root and Shaw had not only made it into the chapel, but also made quite the impact on the two photographers. A multitude of empty _'Oh, really? That's so interesting'_ s and _'It must be so difficult. How do you do it?_ 's left the photographers open books for the women. From problems with the boss to camerawork 101, Root and Shaw were more than well acquainted with the two by the time the outer chapel doors closed.

"So you two are really sure you wanna help us?" The younger one- now known as Kevin- asks Root. She smiles at him kindly, picking up one of their spare cameras.

"Absolutely," she tells him with a honey-sweet voice, and relief seems to flow over Kevin's entire body.

"We're so lucky we stumbled into you guys in the parking lot," Kevin tells her for the umpteenth time. "We're _totally_ understaffed. What photography company did you say you worked for again?" He asks her.

"Patty's Pictures," Root responds, more absent minded than anticipated as her eyes drift to Shaw. She can hear Kevin's voice rattling off, but no coherent words form. Instead, her attention encircles Shaw and the other photographer- Paul.

"This is some _pretty_ nice equipment," he warns her, lopsided smile on his sharp features. He has a camera in one hand, tripod in the other, and holds them just back from Shaw's reach. Shaw, hands clasped in front of her, nods her head, smile on her face becoming more and more of a grimace by the minute. Her eyes flicker to Root, then back. "If you want, I'd be _more_ than happy to show you how to _handle_ it." Shaw tilts her head to the side, shoulders tensing microscopically.

"I think I can manage," Shaw replies, a hint of tightness edging her words as she grabs the camera from him forcefully. Turning away from him and heading towards Root, Root watches Shaw's chipper smile fall as she rolls her eyes.

"Did you hear me?" Kevin's question jars Root back into focus, and- blinking a few times- she peers at him.

"Sorry," she responds with a flourish of her hand. "Deaf in this ear." She taps her ear for effect, and Kevin's jaw drops.

" _Dude_ ," he tells her, awe flooding his voice. "That's _insane_."

Music starts up, and everyone in the wooden rows stands, faces turned towards the inner doors at the front of the chapel. Shaw, grabbing Root by the wrist, pulls her away from the still gawking boy and towards the front pew.

"Paul seemed to take a nice interest in you," Root says, voice two parts joking and one part veiled curiosity. "Did he manage to win you over?" Shaw, still walking them, barks out a cruel chuckle.

" _Please_ ," she replies, dismissing the idea entirely, yet Root decides to push further.

"I don't _know_ ," Root continues, eyes drawn innocently wide as she forces down a smile. "He had to have made _some_ impression." She watches Shaw roll her jaw tightly; it's fuel to her flame. "Otherwise, you would have made at least a _little_ show of being taken."

Shaw stops walking abruptly, leaving Root to all but run into her. Slowly, Shaw turns, the irritation radiating from her in waves, and Root can't help but feel elated at so easily getting under her skin. Shaw pushes her tongue into the side of her cheek as she loosens her grip on Root's wrist, slipping her hand into Root's. Root can feel her cheeks flush, and she holds her breath- the only way she trust herself to keep some level of decorum. She allows Shaw to lift their hands up between them, Shaw clenching her teeth all the while.

" _Better?_ " She asks sharply, smile tight and eyes narrowed. Root's heart thumps wildly about her chest, and she looks away from Shaw a minute to collect her calm composure before answering.

"What?" Root shoots back smartly. "No kiss?" Shaw grows a furious shade of red, smoke billowing from her ears and nose as fire burns brighter than the sun in her eyes. Shaw opens her mouth to speak- no doubt an arsenal on her tongue- yet is silenced before a single round is fired.

"You two mind moving it somewhere _else_?" An angry man's voice calls out. "We're tryna have a wedding, here."

And just like that, the world snaps back into place around them. The pianist playing in the corner, the masses of people crammed into each aisle, the large, floor-to-ceiling windows pouring light over the alter and over themselves- the two of them, hands locked and eyes locked, at the front and center of the aisle.

A tense silence settles over the room, even the music halting as everyone waits.

"I got the Maid of Honor," Shaw seethes below her breath. "You watch the best man." With that, Shaw stalks to the far end of the chapel, leaving Root- feet cemented to the spot- to force herself out of the aisle way. Slowly- cautiously- the music begins again, and the first couple enters the room.

The rest of the bride's maids and groomsmen follow suit, along with a flower girl and ring bearer. Silent ' _Awe'_ s erupt from the crowd as the children pass, but all quickly hushes once more as the bride walks down the aisle. Root watches her smiling face with her white dress flowing behind her, and her mind wanders.

Root finds herself thinking of a completely different wedding- _her_ wedding. With the camera clasped at her chest, she snaps a few photos here and there of things she likes. The arranged flowers at the corners of each wooden bench; the way the sunlight spills over the wedding party; the dress. She wonders who could be at hers, and what would they wear, and how Harold or John or Fusco would react, and what would the vows be like- _there's so much to say_ \- and what would she wear, and what would Shaw wea-

 _Shaw_.

Her words from the morning echo back in Root's ears. _'Not a big fan of weddings.'_ It's a pin in her balloon, deflating everything she'd been thinking about thus far. She can't shake the idea of marrying Shaw, but now- instead of an inviting dream- it haunts her like a malevolent spirit. She has no idea how to drive it from her head, if there's even a way at all.

With a sigh at the tip of her tongue, Root turns her gaze to Shaw, only to find Shaw's eyes already studying her.

____\ Going to the Chapel /____

_'Maid of Honor's looking real irritated.'_

_'She keeps watching your guy. What's he looking like?'_

_'Root, can you hear me?'_

Those three phrases swirl around Sameen Shaw's head faster than the gin and tonic she swishes in mechanic circles at her white-draped table. She'd been keeping up her end of the plan: split the numbers. She'd watched the Maid of Honor grow from a pale white, to rosy pink, then fire engine red, and fuchsia. Something was up- _something big_ \- and it had everything to do with the Best Man. Yet, when Shaw'd tried to get a twenty on him, Root was in another dimension. _Clueless, absolutely clueless._ Vexed beyond belief, Shaw snapped her head Root's way, hoping that the smoldering intensity of her stare would draw Root's attention back to the mission, but it didn't. Instead, she watched Root's eyes wander over every inch of the chapel. She watched Root absently snap photographs now and again, of anything and everything. She watched Root's features, and how they moved with constant thought. Then, she watched Root turn to face her, and froze. Shaw knew exactly what Root was thinking.

And even now, over an hour later, Shaw finds herself replaying the moment frame by frame, unsure how to comprehend it. All of the pieces are there, she just can't find the right way to put them together. _How do you tell someone you know they want to get married?_ She wonders, allowing the corners of her eyes to flicker Root's way. They hadn't spoken a word leaving the chapel; they were silent as death on the drive to the reception; they are still voiceless now.

With an inaudible sigh, Shaw slugs back the rest of her drink, running through all the information they have on their numbers.

_Morgan Row; Maid of Honor and younger sister to the Groom. No current relationships, but an avid collector of cats. Thomas Hayne; Best Man and lifelong friend of the newly weds. They went to the same high school together; he attended the same college as the Bride._

_What's the connection?_ Shaw wonders, munching on perhaps her dozenth pig-in-a-blanket.

Root rests her head on Shaw's shoulder, and Shaw's mind instantly empties of thought. Her shoulders tense, jaw setting rigidly with teeth clenched. Slowly, her muscles uncoil, and she settles back into her seat. It was an unexpected move- everything about Root is unexpected. _Like getting married; why does she want to get married? What's the relevance?_

Shaw pushes it from her mind forcefully, focusing back on Morgan Row, only, she's no where to be found. Senses revving to life, Shaw's eyes scour the crowded hall like a hawk. Face after face flashes past her vision, but not a single one their number. She's not at her table; not with her brother; not on the dance floor-

 _There_. In the back corner of the room where nearly no light touches, Shaw finds Morgan seated in a fold-out chair, body leaning towards the shadow of a man. Her smile is clever, and it all but matches the sinister content in her eyes. Then, just as abruptly as she was found, Morgan disappears behind masses of dancing bodies, all acting as an impenetrable wall. Within seconds, Shaw's patience drains into the negatives.

"We gotta move," Shaw says, and Root instantly lifts her head.

"Do you really think they'll go anywhere?" Root asks. Shaw tilts her head with a short shrug of the shoulders before standing.

"Only one way to find out," she replies. From the corner of Shaw's eye, she catches the smallest of smiles from Root, and feels the tension between them melt like butter.

With a steady pace, Shaw weaves her way between tipsy party-goers, Root right behind. Suddenly, the lights dim to near blackness. Everyone stops, Shaw included, and Root runs into her from behind, wrapping both her hands around Shaw's upper arms to halt.

"By request of the bride," a man's voice booms out from the speakers, "we're gonna slow things down a bit." Shaw rolls her eyes in response. "Now, I wanna see all the couples out there dancing to this one." A low set of notes are strummed before a man's low voice begins to spill mellifluously around the room.

 _'Baby lock the door and turn the lights down low...'_ All around Shaw, couples weave their arms into one another, becoming an unbreakable fortress blocking her from the Maid of Honor; and so, she does the only thing she can think of.

Turning, Shaw peers up at Root, words becoming lead on her tongue as she struggles to push them out.

"Let's dance." Root raises an eyebrow at the proposal, but doesn't protest. Slow smile creeping onto her features, Root drapes her arms over Shaw's shoulders, unable to fight off the smugness in her tone.

"Have a sudden flare for the romantic?" Root coos playfully, and Shaw gives a cruel smirk.

"Not a chance," she replies flatly, wrapping her arms around Root's waist. "We need a constant set of eyes on our targets." With that, Shaw begins turning them in an elongated circle. "Let me know when you see anything."

"I have eyes on her," Root breathes, and Shaw immediately ends the pivot. Her breath comes and goes a little more tightly as Root leans into her, getting a better look at the number. "She's... flirting," Root commentates, Shaw peers past Root's shoulder and to the overwhelming crowd around them. Listening. Thinking. Wondering how two people could possibly know so many others, let alone trust so many. Shaw'd never been the trusting type- she knew that much- and the mere thought of her four close associates, Bear included, compared to this couple's dozens brings a sense of humor to her. _And the music,_ Shaw ridicules with a silent snort. _Slow it down a bit?_ The entire night seemed to be stuck on a 70 tempo. _That would_ not _happen at my wedding._

She stops. Processes the thought that just crossed her mind. Her wedding- she'd said _her_ wedding.

"...Okay, his hand is on her leg now; big brother is _not_ going to appreciate the new couple." Shaw jolts back to focus, taking in what Root's said.

"What does the groom have to do with it?" Shaw asks. Curious, Shaw cranes her neck back to snag a glance. What she finds doesn't disappoint. Shaw watches the dark, shadowy hand slink up Morgan's leg, steadily stretching higher and higher until- just when there seems to be no space left to climb- she places her hands atop his, wrapping his hand in hers, and stands. Her smirk is even more satisfied than before, hazel eyes shimmering as if she's a poacher finally capturing the prized lion. She begins to walk backwards, pulling the man from his chair and towards the hall door- only then does Shaw see it. His face finally connects with the dim lights, revealing none other than Thomas Hayne. However, by the glaze coating his face like a thin layer of wax and the jerking steps he takes, this is a very intoxicated Thomas Hayne.

"No," Shaw says, almost to herself. Her mind flashes back to the glares of undiluted rage and hatred Morgan had flashed at him at the ceremony. "It doesn't add up." Before she realizes it, Root is slipping away, and Shaw instantly finds the empty air before her chilling- hands all too suddenly cold. Without stopping to question, Shaw follows Root's fluid slips and shimmies through the crowd, coming to the outskirts of the room just as the hall door clicks shut. The two share a look, pushing through the adjacent double doors in time to hear a frantic,

"What the _hell_ are you doing, Row?" Only, coming from the drunken Best Man, it sounds more like 'Whahht _th'hell_ er-ye-din-Row?' His back is pressed against the white painted wall, hands up at his head and eyes bursting from their sockets. Across the way, Morgan Row stands in her dress, handgun pointed directly at the space between the man's eyes. Her eyes are murderous, unwavering orbs of loathing; her lip set like stone. Hayne's eyes flicker to the door, then double take at seeing Root and Shaw.

"H- _ehhlp_ mme! H- _ehhlp_!" He slurs desperately. Morgan's icy stare slides over to them, yet her aim remains unfazed.

"So, the bathroom _isn't_ this way?" Shaw asks Morgan, and a tendril of fear wafts into the young girl's eyes. _Witnesses_ , they hiss in horror.

"What do you _want_ ," Morgan spits out in a voice quivering in anger.

"You _know_ ," Shaw responds casually, completely comfortable in her own skin. "Toilet, sink- I _did_ say bathroom, right?" Shaw takes a step forward; Morgan clicks the safety off in response.

" _Don't_ come any closer," she commands, the shake in her tone spreading to her body. Shaw peers back at Root, raising her eyebrow. Root tilts her head forward in response, and Shaw shrugs her shoulders.

"You don't _really_ want to do this," Shaw tells the young Maid of Honor, withdrawing her gun and holding it out by her hip. At the mere sight, Morgan turns a sickly shade of white. "Because, if you do, I'm _gonna_ have to shoot you." Morgan shakes her head, mechanically at first, then with the force of her entire body.

"No, no y- you can't," she stammers, gaze landing back on Haynes. "He _deserves_ to die."

"I don't doubt that," Root pipes in, coming forward until she's half a step from blocking Morgan's shot. Hayne gives an indignant whimper from behind.

"What er-ye- _doon_?" He asks angrily. "H-ehhlp. _Me_." Root, turning to face him, sends him glare that sobers him in an instant. Shaw, taking in the sight, can't help a small grin.

"No offense," Root says, although her voice screams the opposite, "but you don't seem like the _poster boy_ of innocent." 

"He's _not_ ," Morgan belts, fury rising. "He's a _sick_ , _ruinous bastard_."

"What did I ever do to _you_?!" He shrieks in response, and Row smiles with hysteria.

"Not _me_ ," she replies in a dangerously low voice. "My brother." Shaw refrains from expelling a loud groan, instead letting it pour out from her eyes. _A sob story?_ They all but whine. _We have to sit here through a sob story?_ Root, catching the look, mouths the word _'wait._ ' "How _could_ you?" Morgan wails.

" _How_ could I _what_?!"

"How could you _sleep_ with his _fiancé_?!" She screams back, and Shaw contemplates the consequences of just shooting the girl in the hand. _It would save a lot of time..._ At the sound of a fist hitting the wall, Shaw's focus returns to the scene. Again, Hayne throws his fist into the wall behind him in smoldering contempt.

"I was _drunk_ ," he tells her.

"You're _always_ drunk," she spits back. Just then, the doors behind them swing open again, this time accompanied by a gasp.

"Morg, wh- what are- what are you _doing_?" Shaw, turning her head, finds the groom, mouth agape and eyes set in disbelief. Morgan, seeing her brother, wilts. Her body turns to pudding, knees buckling and arms deflating. The gun begins to droop, and it's all Shaw needs to swipe it from her slacken grasp. Making the executive decision that returning the weapon will not be necessary, Shaw tosses it into her small purse, then does the same with her own weapon.

"Lovely wedding, _really_ ," Shaw tells the groom, smoothing down her dress.

"We wish you the best of luck," Root continues, leaving Hayne. "Sorry we didn't bring you a card, though." The groom peers between the women as if only now realizing their presence. His eyes grow fuzzy in confusion.

"Who- who are _you_?" He asks them; Root smiles in return.

"Concerned third party?" Root offers, and Shaw can't help but to smirk in amusement.

______\ Person of Interest /______

" _That_ was an interesting day," Shaw comments, flopping down on their apartment's couch. Her feet pulse with a growing ache from her heels, and she puts them up on the coffee table, neck tilting back until her head sinks into the backrest of the couch. "A wedding that's both happy _and_ homicidal." Root, stepping into the room, peers down at Shaw with playful condescendence in her eyes.

"Not _all_ weddings are like that," Root points out, folding in on the cushion next to Shaw. Shaw allows her head to roll to the left until she's looking at Root, who sits with her body facing Shaw.

"Only the fun ones," Shaw shoots back, and earns a lightly amused smile from Root. They are both quiet a moment, Shaw's mind swirls with thoughts she'd been bombarded with the entire ride home. It's almost as if her brain has come to obsess over it- developing and checking and developing every syllable she wants to say, all the while needing to force it to come off nonchalant. It's usually something that comes easily to Shaw, but this? _This requires a little more... finesse._ "What did you think about it?" Root's eyes shimmer in thought, and she shifts on the couch as she relays her thoughts.

" _Other_ than the killer bride’s maid?" Root cracks, "I thought it was nice." Shaw nods slowly, coaxing the next words from her mouth. She'd thought it through a thousand times in the last hour- she'd contemplated it, she'd planned it, she'd wanted it- but yet her tongue feels swollen. As if it's trying to keep the words in. Swallowing, Shaw presses her lips together, peers around the room, then directs her intense gaze on Root.

"Is a wedding something _you'd_ want?" Immediately, the weight of the room shifts. Root lifts her head, eyes awakened as if she's just been doused in ice water. Root freezes, thoughts turning behind her coffee eyes that Shaw is unable to read. _What is she thinking?_ Shaw wonders with impatient vexation. She can't help but to back track in her mind, trying to decide if- by some disastrous feat- she'd managed to misread Root at the chapel. If she didn't want a wedding at all, and now Shaw had become absorbed- _at least a little_ \- by the idea all for nothing, then-

"Yes," Root replies, and Shaw mind stops running circles. The answer is so timid- so simple- that Shaw isn't sure if she's truly heard it at all. There is nothing on Root's face, although her eyes fidget like a nervous child caught with their hand in the cookie jar. Relief drips like morphine into Shaw's veins, and she relaxes muscles she hadn't realized were tense.

"Then let's get married," Shaw responds- just as simply. Root's mouth parts the slightest bit, disbelief spilling from every pore.

"What?"

"Will you marry me?" Shaw rephrases. Unlike before, there is no nervousness; no space for doubt to squeeze its hazardous fingers into. Shaw waits, watching as the question takes over Root's features. First her eyes, their increasing vibrance like the rising sun; then her eyebrows as they lift in a certain mix of disbelief and delight; then her mouth as her lips part to reveal a smile that brightens the entire room. Root begins to nod, the shock slowly wearing off as her motions pick up speed and the nodding turns into a verbal,

"Yes- _yes_." Shaw, in seeing Root's absolute elation as it courses through every inch of her body, finds her own pleasure beginning to roll in.

"What?" Shaw asks rhetorically, feeling a need to fill the electric silence. "No kiss?" Root tilts her head to the side in response, closing her eyes with a small chuckle, before leaning in.


End file.
